


making sense of it

by graydar



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Sexuality, University, an unsolicited dick pic, gray really attempts to write some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27331405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graydar/pseuds/graydar
Summary: He convinces himself that he’s not made to love. There’s a malfunction he can’t reach and there’s no fixing it.
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 53





	making sense of it

**Author's Note:**

> an extra warning here because i don't know how to tag things:  
> \- a guy at a party tries to pressure phil into sex, it's very quick and not stated blatantly

Maybe it’s the pictures. Or the fact that he refuses to upload one without his shirt on. He’s not that desperate - or comfortable with his body.

They’re just not very good. And having to pick out five or six that mean something to him - make him up, draw a picture of who he is - and also attract that kind of attention, feels impossible. Feels trivial and silly and terrifyingly exciting. Feels like he finally gets to decide, have a say, put a stamp on the person he’s decided to be out - out in the world where everyone and no one can see him.

There is a terrifying possibility in being Known.

No. Or, he’s just being dramatic.

It’s just online dating. There is no life or death here. And yet it feels like the most rebellious thing he’s ever done.

He switches the “who are you interested in?” over to MEN for the first time. He already knows. There’s no epiphany in it. And yet, it feels bold. He’s out here, making these moves that feel undeniably him and real and unchanging.

He’s opening up a door that invites all kinds of rejection in. All of the fears he’s had to live without - until now. The ones he’s stuffed under his pillow when they creep up in the middle of the night. The ones that didn’t matter before - because no one even knew, anyhow.

Was it even real? If no one knew but him? Is it real if it’s just inside his head?

University does this to him. Brings up all the types of philosophical questions that are asked to make you think, not asked for an answer. He runs round and round the possible answers and very little queer theory he even knows, trying to shape some kind of understanding around the seeming existential crisis that signing up for this dating site has inspired in him. That, and the conversations he and his flatmates have in the middle of the night when they’re just on the right side of tipsy.

They know now. If they even remember him telling them. Or if they even care to remember. He vaguely remembers a shadow of the conversation they’d had after he told them. The deep dive into politics and the likelihood of growing up to be gay and the whole “nature vs nurture” argument. All in good faith, all in the fun of debating and wondering and trying to make sense of the new world - the world that belongs to them and not their parents or their teachers or the places they grew up in.

Phil loves listening to them talk. Hates being asked to join in. Never can make the words into real sentences when he thinks them. Just a little pretzel of an attempt to understand - whatever the fuck he’s been thrown into. The fleshy suit he wears, the stuff it makes him feel, the things he can and can’t control, and what the fuck even is right? Especially when so many people get to do what’s wrong and hurtful and selfish and get away with it.

He’s got too much revising to do. He doesn’t have time to pick apart the society of human thinking and all of it’s iniquities. He’d rather waste time, fill his head with horror movies and stuff that makes him a little bit numb, a little bit less afraid. He’d rather listen to everyone else hypothesize than have to come up with an answer that only makes him anxious and brings up all the fear of death his brother says he’s got to get rid of.

If this is what being an adult is, all the thinking and pulling apart, then he’d rather just be a kid allowed at the adult table. He’d rather just speak when spoken to, not have to make up the whole conversation.

He’d rather not think about what makes him gay. And whether that came from his mother or his father or the chromosomes that make him up. He’d rather just be gay - no questions asked.

He’d rather be gay and in love and happy and - and not lying anymore. That’s what he’d rather be.

\--

The first guy sends him a photo of his penis.

Phil can’t find the block button and sends an accidental keysmash back instead.

He gets a winky face in reply.

There’s a twist in his gut. He doesn’t know why, but it scares him. The whole thing. All he has to do is block the guy from viewing his profile and he’ll never see him or his wrinkly dick again. But it freaks him out in a way he never really expected.

He’s seen dicks before. Likes most of them, he thinks? When they’re attached to nice looking people with faces he can actually make out on his computer screen. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? The whole point in being gay and not straight. Has to do with the parts. Or not? Is it the body hair and the flat chests? They’re just bodies. He has no idea why the boy ones make him feel more than the girl ones.

He thinks too hard about gender until it doesn’t feel real anymore. Probably isn’t, but. He’s not supposed to be doing the thinking, the figuring out, the analyzing, the - all of it. He’s just supposed to be gay and happy and meeting his Prince Charming over the internet like all great love stories.

He just. He doesn’t really want their parts involved yet.

\--

There’s a society on campus. He gets all of their brochures and invite emails. Because he’d signed up for the mailing list on a whim at the beginning of the semester. Like he planned on actually attending their events.

He psyched himself out. Going alone seemed more embarrassing than not going at all after smiling at the guy that sat at their table during the new student fair.

Until he sees the guy at a house party one week in the fall. And he actually recognizes Phil.

It doesn’t help that Phil had spent about two days fantasizing about their great, dramatic love story after they’d met the first time. He’d let it go after the reality set in - Phil would never have the confidence to go to one of those meetings all by himself, effectively outing himself to an entire new group of people, and this guy was a senior and had a lot of gay years on Phil and was fully out of his league.

He’s friendlier than Phil remembered. Or, had thought up in his head.

He won’t let Phil go away the entire night. Stays by his side and keeps refilling his drinks. Phil wonders part of the way through if he’s trying to get Phil drunk and --

But Phil would probably like that too much. He’s never been lucky like that. The guy doesn’t even really know he’s gay. Like, gay gay. He didn’t really say it before.

“They all do that,” he says.

“Why? It’s gross.”

He shrugs. “Some people like it.”

“It wasn’t pretty or anything,” Phil says, blowing bubbles into his cup.

“Most people are just trying to get off. Quick. They don’t put in the time. No artistry to it. Sorry, Philly.”

His heart goes light at the nickname. “But, like. Whatever happened to ‘hi, nice to meet you?’ Take me out to dinner, then I might.. I don’t know. Maybe.”

There’s a hand on his shoulder. “Have you - never?”

Phil giggles. The alcohol feeling warm and unsettling, swirling inside. “I’m eighteen. I’m a baby.”

“No, you’re not. Just because you’re a fresher doesn’t mean you aren’t as adult as the rest of us,” the guy says, too serious. Phil was mostly joking.

“Oh, I know. I just… ‘course I haven’t, you know? Who? Where? How? I’m not even out at home.”

“Me neither.”

“Really?”

He shakes his head. Phil really can’t remember his name. There’s something written on the side of his plastic cup, but it’s smudged and the handwriting isn’t legible, especially when Phil’s eyes are so unfocused. Have his contact lenses fallen out?

\--

He’s being led to a bedroom before any sort of sense kicks in.

“I have something to show you.” And for some reason the first thing Phil thinks is - secret society of the gays. He’s being inducted and this is the ritual. They meet behind a secret door that looks like a bookcase but reveals a --

It looks like a regular door and a regular bedroom. Cramped and cluttered with dirty laundry. It’s not much to show.

He goes, “This your room?” But barely gets it out before he’s being all crowded up against the foot of the bed. He stumbles back and flips over the end of it, nearly kicking the guy in the head.

Really, what is his name? Jared? Or - what is John? Something with a J...

He’s still giggly. Can’t control the squeaks that come out of his mouth as he stumbles backwards. The guy frowns, a little annoyed or something. Phil goes to talk again, but he hiccups instead. Oops.

“What did you want to show me?” he manages.

He tries to sit up, but the guy shoves his shoulder back down. A little more aggressive than Phil thinks is really necessary.

It knocks back into the mattress and something starts whirring in Phil’s brain. It’s a fight or flight. Because now it seems like this guy wants him on the bed and didn’t shove him on accident and Phil doesn’t really want a surprise. Everything feels quick in his brain, he has too much to say, but he doesn’t think they’re talking anymore.

The guy goes - he’s there above him --

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. I forgot, erm. I’ve gotta.. I’ve gotta.. I’ve gotta. Okay. Bye.” And Phil runs.

\--

He makes it out before anything too embarrassing can take place. He’s shaking for some reason and it doesn’t stop once he’s back at home. He doesn’t feel drunk anymore. He feels whiplashed, still trying to remember that guy’s name. Or his face, because it’s suddenly vanished from his memory. He was there - just a few minutes ago - standing in the dark, smokey uni house, the guy’s pretty face right in front of him. There’s no face anymore when he thinks it up in his head. Just a smudge.

\--

He rings his mum once he’s back in pj’s and holding a bowl of popcorn with Buffy pulled up on his laptop. His room feels too big and lonely now. The usual comfort pieces not doing their job right. And he can’t stop thinking that he’d just rather be home now. Home where everything makes sense and he doesn’t have to wonder about where he fits.

He’s started crying - sort of out of nowhere and also sort of bubbled up from something without a name.

He cries on the phone to his mum for what feels like forever. It’s the first time they’ve really talked on the phone since he’s been gone - and they don’t talk. Phil just cries and cries and cries. His mum asks so many questions, all of which Phil can’t make himself answer.

“I’m fine, I promise,” he chokes out between a sob.

“Philip, you are obviously not fine.”

And all he can do is cry.

\--

It’d be a lot easier if he did the breaking down, the analyzing, the figuring out - if he didn’t keep most of that tied up inside the dark places of his mind. The places he drowns out in his worst moments.

But, would it be easier, to let them all out and cover him in dread and frustration? Would he be that much closer to knowing himself - if he just let the questions in.

He thought he knew. It was simple and complicated at the same time, but he didn’t have to question it. It made sense to him, on a fully fundamental level - he never had to wonder if that part of himself was true, or real, or right. It felt sewn into his bones.

One step in the real world and he’s taken a huge leap back into himself. No figuring out going on. Just hiding. Pretending, that he isn’t always on the verge of something, of breaking down.

Everyone else here seems to just know themselves. He thinks they’re probably pretending, too. But they’re all so much better at it than he is.

\--

He convinces himself that he’s not made to love. There’s a malfunction he can’t reach and there’s no fixing it. He could be content that way, being alone and loving his friends more than life. It’s all he needs, right? There can’t be more than this. He couldn’t handle it. He’s been proven not to handle it.

Or, there’s just too much hurt there. Probably. There’s too much wondering and games that make him not trust any of the words people say.

He keeps his profile online, just in case he changes his mind. Just in case fate decides to drop something in his lap that makes all the rest fall into some kind of place.

There’s a lot of valid excuses. He’s young. He’s in his first year of uni and he’s busy with that. The time for love will come. He’s not a lost cause this is just - a steady growing. Why would he want to rush?

There’s time. He has time. And somewhere, out in the world, there’s someone waiting for him.

\--

He should’ve deleted his profile.

There’s a shitstorm and nothing he can do to stop it. He sees the screenshot and immediately deactivates his account - as if that will turn back time and make it all not true.

He turns off his phone and lets his laptop battery drain as it pings with notification after notification. The sun sets on his room and he doesn’t move to turn on a light.

It’s a terrible feeling, letting actual darkness fall and surround him. But it’s how he feels and he’s let himself be dramatic, because at least there’s not a mum on the other side of his door calling him down to dinner.

Oh, fuck. His mum.

\--

He gets to go on a real date. After all, that’s all he really wanted. The boy is nice and sort of attractive. He pays for their meal, even though Phil suggested the restaurant and ordered something expensive to make himself seem older and of refined tastes. The actual meal tasted a bit rank, but. At least he got to say the fancy words to the server.

They see a movie, too. Feels like the perfect shape of a date. The ones Phil imagines for himself when he’s falling asleep and sometimes in the shower when he just needs something to think about. His brain latches onto it - imagines the whole world of it, imagines the falling and the life that comes after it.

But, when this boy goes to hold his hand, he feels his body cringe a little at the feel of his skin. His heart speeds up in something that isn’t excitement. He bites his lip too hard, makes himself stay there, he can’t run away again.

There’s that initial response, and then there’s softening into it. This boy’s touch is light and gentle, his thumb rubs over Phil’s palm in a way that feels - lovely, after a while.

Phil looks over at him in the dark and sees the soft curves of his face. There’s no intention there. Nothing harmful or selfish. He’s just sitting in the cinema, holding a boy’s hand under the armrest. And he seems pleased with himself.

Phil lets him hold his hand through the whole film. That’s it.

\--

There’s time for more. And the more comes after just enough time. It comes slowly, with too many words in between and redundant reassurances. Phil takes his steps carefully, watches and calculates at the rise of his heart each time, just to make sure this is alright. He wants it. It’s fun and he trusts this person and it’s - despite everything else - leaning towards right.

Nothing makes sense, really. He still doesn’t understand where the gaps are inside of him. Still knows there’s finding out to be done. But this is nice for now. Nice and okay and - it feels good. That’s all he really needs.

\--

Phil doesn’t fall in love - for a long time. And yet every little step feels like falling. Every person he meets, he’s like - this is the person because how could I not love them? Because there seems to be a line between it all, he’s just not sure where it lives. In between the sharing of secrets and learning each other’s favorite colors and making the memories he thinks he’ll write about one day - make them into a movie. They’re worth that.

He knows it’s not real love, it’s something love adjacent. Something that’s good enough to quiet all this schoolboy yearning in him. And still, it’s the trust that makes it whole. Phil never takes it for granted. Keeps it close and safe like a secret, because, for him, it really is so rare and perfect.

He loves so hard, so much, so fast. And yet, nothing could prepare him for the real thing once it happens.

And then, finally, it all makes sense.

**Author's Note:**

> i told louise i couldn't write angst and then i wrote this - but is it really angst if there's a happy-ish ending?
> 
> i had this idea for ace awareness week but procrastinated and then it morphed into this... who knows. 
> 
> thanks for reading! catch me on my mess of a blog @graydar on tumblr


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